Nevan
I opened my eyes to a version of Wellspring that wasn't mine.
The corridor stretched out before me, longer than it should have been, the walls narrowing imperceptibly as they receded into a distance that has no end. The paintings that usually hung in orderly rows had shifted — not their frames, but the images inside them.
The rolling hills were blackened, the lakes were dry, and the faces in the family portraits had turned away, staring into the walls as though they couldn't bear to look at what walked their halls.
The light came from nowhere. There were no candles, no windows, no moonlight, just a grey, sourceless glow that clung to the surface like mist and made the shadows deeper than they had any right to be.
I knew this place.
